


A Hand For Your Hand

by Princess of Geeks (Princess)



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: AU, Age of Sail, Anal Sex, Bondage, Dubious Consent, First Time, M/M, Romance, long hair kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-15
Updated: 2010-03-15
Packaged: 2017-10-08 00:26:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/70827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princess/pseuds/Princess%20of%20Geeks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Circa 1800, Captain Daniel Jackson's splendid career as commander of the pirate ship <i>Abydos</i> comes to an abrupt end at the hands of his worthiest opponent, Captain Jack O'Neill. This now has a sequel: "A Matter of Loyalty."</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Hand For Your Hand

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [A Matter of Loyalty](https://archiveofourown.org/works/197628) by [Princess of Geeks (Princess)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princess/pseuds/Princess%20of%20Geeks). 



_"All good things must come to an end," or, better, "Vanity, vanity, all is vanity",_ Daniel Jackson thought, as a seaman from the attacking ship came up beside him and kicked him in the left shin. The kick was hard enough that it nudged him off balance, causing him to poorly execute his parry against the marine attacking from the front. Jackson's blade slid uselessly against the heaviest segment of his opponent's, giving the marine a momentary advantage that, along with the kick, was just enough to result in Jackson being disarmed.

His blade sliding as the kick connected, Jackson braced a shoulder against the mainmast, which prevented him from landing on his ass. He winced as his rapier flipped through the air, thumped to the deck and slid uselessly toward Teal'c.

Jackson tried to stand still and keep his breathing shallow on account of the serviceable short blade held firmly against the skin of his throat. No reason to add a slit gullet to the scuffs and scrapes he'd acquired since their boarding by the professional and contemptuous pack of ragtag mercenaries, from a ship flying the Portuguese flag. It was the captain of that ship who was even now bending Teal'c back over the rail, immobilizing him, just there across the deck, a short distance away. Jackson lowered his hands, slowly, so as not to alarm the man holding the sword, and pressed his palms against the smooth wood of the mast behind him. The steel was warm against his skin. Calm in defeat, he caught his breath and marveled at the hand-to-hand tactics, whatever they had been, that had allowed the brown-haired, lean-backed leader of his opponents to take such advantage of Jackson's commander.

As Jackson watched, the boarding captain pressed closer, but at the same time, loosened his grip on Teal'c's throat. He was saying something Jackson could not catch. Teal'c looked the man in the eye, frowned, slid a little further against the railing, and then executed a rather graceful backward flip over it and out into thin air. Jackson closed his eyes, waiting for the splash. When he heard it, he opened his eyes to see the man who had, for some reason, spared Teal'c's life, approaching. He walked with a loose-limbed, satisfied grace, lord of all he surveyed, sheathing his sword and assessing the deck as he came.

He arrived in front of Jackson, and casually looked him up and down. "Nice little ship you've got here," the man said in American-accented English, as if they had met on the wharf at Tripoli and were admiring the cruisers just come into port. He took no notice of his crewmen coming to attention, even as they continued to hold Jackson still. The captain was tall, and plainly dressed for service, not for style. He had a straight nose and a wide mouth, and thoughtful dark eyes. His blade and sheath were plain as his dingy coat, but Jackson noted both their well-worn appearance and their excellent craftsmanship.

"Thank you; we go back a long way," Jackson returned, holding the brown, level gaze.

"Jack O'Neill, captain of the _Victory_," the man said, still cheerful. Jackson half-expected him to put out his hand for a shake; he sounded that unpretentious and American. The mentioned ship was, at present, congenially bumping gunwales with Jackson's own. Then Jackson frowned, a wisp of memory touching him gently. That name... he had known an O'Neill once, hadn't he? A long time ago.... But he couldn't touch it or pull it closer; it was like a scrap of foam on the breeze.

"Daniel Jackson, capt--"

"I know," O'Neill said, and stepped back and glanced around. Jackson noticed that all noise of fighting had ceased. He heard only the subdued growl of men's voices, and the wind slapping at the idle sails of the two ships. Jackson closed his eyes again, still very much aware of the steel at his throat.

_"All good things..."_

He opened his eyes quickly as he sensed an encroachment on his person, felt the heat of a body. Smiling sardonically, his face close enough that Jackson could taste his breath, O'Neill reached behind Jackson and with a single yank carried away the leather string that held Jackson's pigtail. Jackson felt his long hair spill across his sweaty neck. One tendril was caught by the breeze and blown across his mouth, sticking there. He didn't move.

"Kawalsky," O'Neill said, and his voice seemed to catch on the name. Only then did O'Neill step back and jerk his head, and the blade at Jackson's throat was removed. "Choose six for your prize crew," he continued, in French, "and take command of _Abydos_. We make for Gibraltar."

"Yes, sir," Kawalsky said, putting away his sword and collecting, with a glance, the marine who'd helped him disarm Jackson. The two of them turned at once and went down the deck, examining the wounded one by one, calling for water or for other members of their crew. O'Neill turned, shoving Jackson's shoulder to get him to move, using less force than he could have. Jackson allowed himself to be rocked forward, and then felt the thin leather winding around his wrists.

O'Neill was so very calm, as if carrying on a polite conversation over dinner, while he bound Jackson's hands behind his back. Strange. But, the day had begun strangely and showed every sign of continuing in that vein. Jackson wondered if Teal'c had found the current that would take him to shore with minimum effort. He stopped himself from looking.

O'Neill, his warm fingers resting lightly on Jackson's wrists, said, "A shame I ended up sinking your flagship. But, you win a few, you lose a few."

"A great shame. And yet, you let the _Avalon_ escape at the beginning of our engagement today; why?" _And when exactly do you intend to let go of my arm?_

"Did I?" O'Neill moved around and smiled at him, and pulled the wisp of red-brown hair from where it had stuck to Jackson's lower lip. Jackson settled his shoulders against the tension of his bound wrists and stood up straighter. The brush against his lips was gentle, and it sent a sweet, small thrill along his skin. The gentleness was more disturbing than the blade at his throat. O'Neill met his eyes, his tone still light. "Why would I do that?"

"As well, you just now let Teal'c escape; so perhaps you intended all along to do the same for Carter. You had a clear shot at her ship as you executed your ambush."

O'Neill put a hand to his chest. The gesture and his tone were overly dramatic. It made Jackson want to smile, despite his situation. He suppressed it. "But, sir. Let your partners in crime go free? Unpunished? To pillage another day? That would make my government very unhappy."

"Exactly. So. You see my puzzlement."

O'Neill, a half smile lingering on his lips, took hold of Jackson's shoulder and firmly turned him, then shoved him across the deck to the point of closest contact between the two ships, as they bobbed on the gentle waves. He braced a booted foot on the railing, and, keeping firm hold of Jackson's upper arm and timing their move with the action of the swell, he jumped them across the narrow gap to the deck of the _Victory._

"Well, puzzlement is a good look for you," O'Neill said. "You should work with that."

Jackson glared at him sidelong, then immediately tried to school his features to calmness. No, "strange" did not begin to cover this.

O'Neill let go, brushing Jackson's shoulder in the process with a touch that seemed to want to linger. Switching again to French, O'Neill said to the saluting midshipman who appeared before them, "Take him below. My quarters. Guard the door." And O'Neill turned away and headed for the wheel, shouting orders, getting his ship under sail, with never a backward glance.

Jackson locked eyes with the midshipman, who regarded him coldly, but indicated with a wave of his hand that Jackson should precede him. Jackson could see that his own ship, now under Kawalsky's command, had fallen off to port a bit and was getting under sail as well. He felt a momentary pang as he saw her start to make way. Her holds were nearly empty, so she was already pushing eagerly against the waves. Kawalsky's crew had struck his colors, and the Portuguese red and green was making its way up and up, past the sails all now fluttering in the freshening evening breeze. As he watched, the sails began to tighten one by one, the slow pace of their trimming understandable given the scanty crew manning them. She had been a beautiful ship.

Jackson stifled a sigh. He was alive, as were nearly all his hands from _Abydos_. Teal'c had escaped, but what would become of them?

Then Jackson was shoved down the ladder and along the gangway and into the big stern cabin. Eyes narrowed, he stood in the center of the floor as the door closed behind him.

It was a generous area, big for a ship this size, the furnishings simple and yet of the finest quality -- brass lamps, the dull-colored linens and blankets on the narrow bunk, the gleaming leather of the desk blotter and the chair, a Persian carpet. Automatically bracing as the ship heeled, Jackson yanked restlessly at the tie around his wrists. He moved, past the long polished dining table, toward the wide window. He could jump. They weren't two miles off the Algerian coast; chances were high that someone at least nominally friendly would find him before he drowned from lack of use of his hands. Yes, he could still jump. He gazed down at the wake.

And yet.... And yet. O'Neill had known his name. O'Neill had freed Teal'c when he could very easily have killed him. And he had let Sam Carter, and all her crew, slip away. Deliberately, before battle was joined.

It had been a long day, a long fight, dreadful in the way all such engagements were dreadful. He'd been skillfully ambushed -- something that had never happened to him before. Never once, in all his years of strategic and never-quite-too-greedy plundering, had another captain gotten the drop on him. His own intelligence was too good, as well as his ability to outmaneuver pursuit. But this O'Neill was an opponent the likes of which he'd never seen, a man whose seamanship matched his own.

And O'Neill, inexplicably, had chosen to free both Teal'c and Carter. He had captured only Jackson, and had, whenever possible as the day unfolded, avoided bombardment and all-out assault, relying chiefly on sailing tactics to accomplish the capture of Jackson's ship and the sinking of Teal'c's with minimal loss of life.

It was, indeed, a puzzlement.

Jackson frowned, watching the _Victory's_ wake boil below him. So, he had finally found an opponent worthy of the name. And now he was a prisoner, bound, held behind a barred door. Pitifully, ruefully, but not, in the final analysis, unexpectedly. The life he'd been living was not one to be embraced for the long term.

This defeat was stinging and fresh, but the fact of its inevitability was something he'd long ago anticipated, and, he'd thought, made his peace with. Pirates were not known for achieving a peaceful retirement. Jackson had long ago accepted the most fatalistic expectations for his own fate. The Portuguese who were the pirates' most familiar foes had spent years giving with one hand and taking with the other, most often using the Barbary crews to advance their own maritime ends, while pretending a statesmanlike outrage at their depredations. And a new foe clouded the horizon. Across the ocean, his own belligerent former countrymen had finally taken their own steps toward stopping the loose affiliation of renegades, Jackson's adopted brethren. The young American republic was building a navy to send in pursuit of Jackson and all his kind.

But today's surgical, expert trap was a far cry from the bloody defeat and quickly brutal death that Jackson had imagined awaited him someday. And O'Neill... Captain Jack O'Neill. Memory tugged at Jackson again, tenacious as the leather around his wrists. The man knew him, perhaps beyond his reputation as captain of the _Abydos_. He was also an American by birth, or Jackson had never heard the accent. A fellow American, who had let Teal'c escape. And Carter.

Jackson watched the sea, and did not jump.

Soon, growing impatient, he began to pace. He wandered the captain's cabin, measuring his prison, thwarted in his attempts to open drawers or ransack the desk or the chest. The longer he pondered O'Neill's actions, the more intrigued he became, and the more he began to suspect that whatever O'Neill planned for him, it would not include hanging him from the yard arm at sunrise. Unbidden and more than a little unwelcome, his mind insisted on replaying the touch of O'Neill's fingers against his lips. Finally, he returned to stand by the stern window once again, resting his hip on the table's corner, to watch the ever-moving sea. His _Abydos_ was not in view, and he supposed that was just as well.

The sound of the door opening behind him made him stand and turn. It was O'Neill, along with a boy carrying a pitcher and a deep basin. He set them on a low table near the door.

"Dinner in twenty minutes," O'Neill said to the boy, and this time he was speaking Spanish. Jackson raised an eyebrow at his captor as the boy silently pulled the door closed behind him. O'Neill crossed to the basin, removing his dark coat as he did so, and poured water.

"I hope you have no objection to Spanish wine, Captain Jackson. And you'll find the fresh fruit, um, familiar, I think." Jackson was surprised at the thrill that went through him when O'Neill turned to him and smiled, his fingers moving down his shirt buttons. "Deliveries have been a little interrupted for us in the last few days, but we were able to get hold of some choice items from some local ... traders."

The sardonic smile again, and O'Neill, shirtless, bent and washed his face and upper body. Finished, he watched Jackson with a curiously intent stare as he dried himself with a small towel, one of two on the table, Jackson noted, trying by noticing such details to distract himself from looking at O'Neill's muscular torso. He failed.

His captor's upper body was strong and lean, scattered with curling hair. Jackson tried to watch his eyes, his mouth, instead of his chest, his shoulders, but as a tactic of distraction, that was a failure as well. His eyes were twinkling and sharp; his lips full. They would be soft to the touch, to the .... Jackson puffed out a breath and jerked his wrists, reminding himself of his situation. His captor, by any objective standard, was attractive and well built. This was simply a fact, but it was not a fact he intended to react to any further.

O'Neill was watching him just as closely. Never losing the smile, he tossed the towel on the table and came toward Jackson. Though he wasn't much taller, he seemed to loom. The air around them grew warmer, crackling with tension. Then O'Neill bent and deftly pulled a knife from his boot. Before Jackson could react to the threat, O'Neill had ducked behind him, close but not touching, standing so near that Jackson felt as much as heard O'Neill inhale. Then O'Neill's heavy, damp hand closed around his forearm, and O'Neill cut the leather around his wrists with one swift slice.

"Water's all yours," O'Neill said. Jackson turned, even more puzzled, if that were possible, than before. But O'Neill just stood there, shirtless, the knife in one hand and the bit of leather in the other, eyes narrowed. There was a drip of water making its way down his chest. And there was one more clue to his host's intentions. The smooth, form-fitting cut of O'Neill's breeches offered no concealment of his mood. Jackson had not been imagining the sparks crackling between them.

"What do you want?" Jackson said, quietly, not demanding. O'Neill was still standing too close to him. Jackson held one wrist lightly; the leather hadn't really chafed him in the short time he'd been bound but it was good to feel it gone. He shifted his shoulders under his loose shirt and met O'Neill's now frankly admiring gaze.

O'Neill smiled, and stepped back, and pointed to the basin with his knife. "Want? Why, Captain Jackson, desire is a trap that creates only suffering."

Jackson shook his head. Of all the things he expected to come out of this man's mouth... "Silly me; I thought desire was a necessary prerequisite to bliss."

"Well, that too." O'Neill was still indicating the basin, so Jackson stepped to it.

He took a long breath, the first full one he'd been able to manage since O'Neill had slipped behind him to free his hands. Though it felt distinctly uncomfortable to have his back to the man, he forced himself to begin unbuttoning his shirt. There was even a cake of French soap, not the rough everyday stuff used by sailors. When he looked up again, O'Neill had sheathed his knife and was watching him openly.

Was this, perhaps, a way to turn defeat into victory, or at least into escape? Jackson faced his captor and shrugged out of his shirt, letting it fall to the carpet behind him. He reached out his hand for the leather that O'Neill still held. O'Neill looked down. He seemed surprised to still find it in his hand. O'Neill handed over the tie, and Jackson shook it free and then pulled his hair back again. He took his time, well aware of how the muscles in his arms rippled as he raised his hands to fasten his pigtail again. Then he bent over the water and washed, and when he straightened, his face dripping, O'Neill handed him the fresh towel. A glance told him his captor was still hard.

He blotted his face and put his shirt back on, leaving it unbuttoned. The brush of fabric on his damp skin brought his nipples erect, and he noticed O'Neill noticing. While he'd been washing, O'Neill had put on a new shirt -- not a uniform shirt with buttons, but a simple white pullover with a wide neck.

O'Neill indicated the table with a wave of his hand, and brought out wine and cups from a cupboard as Jackson sat. The sun was now slanting diagonally across their path, he noted automatically. They'd have to tack soon if they wanted to continue for Gibraltar. They could count on a change in the wind in the night, though, based on the clouds he could see in a corner of the sky.

The door was opening again; it was the boy, with a wide tray holding their meal. He quietly and efficiently laid the table and opened the wine. O'Neill watched the boy, and Jackson watched O'Neill. He did not order the boy to stay to serve them. He dismissed him as soon as the dishes were on the table, and then followed him to lock and bolt the door, Jackson noted with raised eyebrows.

Feeling that he knew the game now, Jackson found that the events of that dinner, the taste of the lemony sauce that accented the fish, the grapes and melons and greens liberated from his own stores, even the ordinary hard rolls, became memorable. Important. Soon after they set to, he heard the shouts on deck, and felt the tack he had predicted.

"Tell me," Jackson said, agreeing with a nod that O'Neill should refill his glass, "what is the price on my head in Boston these days?" The wine was excellent, and it had been the color of blood when O'Neill poured the first glasses in the horizontal light. It was purple now, as the light faded. Soon his host would have to call the boy in with a taper.

As if reading his thoughts, O'Neill set the bottle down, finished his own glass with a careful swallow, and walked to the desk, then the bulkhead, to begin lighting the lamps himself.

"Oh, I haven't checked your bounty in the States in quite a while."

"Of course," Jackson said. "Your accent distracted me. There is no reason to assume you have been in the States for some time. You're sailing under the flag of Portugal; you are a soldier of fortune, I suppose."

"Something like that," O'Neill said, catching him with a hard stare, as he lit the last lantern. He folded his arms and licked his lips, as if pondering what to say next. Jackson could not imagine what could be so difficult about discussing exactly which government was to receive his now-pathetic frame for jailing.

Elusive memory touched Jackson again, a feather's touch. There was something there; he had not imagined it. Where had their paths crossed before? "But you learned your English in the States; you're a child of the New World or my immensely expensive education was all for nothing. I'd stake --" Jackson's expansive gesture was aborted, became a futile hand wave. "Well, I'd stake the wine on it if it were my wine, and excellent wine it is. But you take my point -- you're American, not Irish."

"As American as you are, Doctor Jackson."

That made Jackson set his glass on the table, suddenly, slopping the wine a little as the glass came down hard, from halfway to his lips. The men and women who could, accurately, give him that title, the title he'd earned, the title he deserved, he could count on one hand, and he didn't think his offhand bragging about identifying accents was enough to let this man make that leap. How....

Memory finally clicked, the missing pieces slotting into place. He stood up.

"The _Dancer_. You were captain of the _Dancer_."

O'Neill bowed. "Still at your service." Then he sat down and poured himself a new glass. Jackson remained standing. All those years ago -- a decade gone now, rivers of pain and blood between the man he was now and the boy he barely remembered being then, the _naif_ who had made the stormy crossing from New York to Calais on the...

"That was an American ship; from the merchant marine. And you were an American captain."

"Well. Not any more." O'Neill drank his wine, looking at the glass and not at his prisoner.

Jackson stared at him. Memory flooded back; the handsome captain who'd seemed so old, so experienced, so fearsome, so out of reach, back then. One face among many in the adventure he was setting off to have, in the Old World... One handsome face.

"Strange paths," Jackson muttered, and O'Neill lifted his eyes. Something smoldered between them as their glances met and held.

"A long time ago, now," O'Neill said. "Are you surprised to learn I've kept track of you, all these years?"

"Yes." Jackson leaned back, breaking the moment. The captain of the _Dancer_, now in the service of the government purportedly devoted to destroying him and his fellow ... adventurers. Dislocating, trying to reconcile what he remembered of that gallant, generous man, with the determined, forceful fighter he'd spent this day trying and failing to out-maneuver, both of them spending lives of their crew in the effort. He drew a breath, let it out, tried to calm his heart.

"What do you want, O'Neill?"

"You asked me that already."

"I'm asking you again."

O'Neill cocked his head, looking thoughtful. When he finally answered, his voice was soft, but it sounded threatening, not inviting. "Isn't it obvious by now?"

Jackson sighed, and sat. He picked up his glass and drained it. The captain of long ago he had rather liked; but the mercenary of today.... He leaned back and offered his wrists. "You'd better immobilize me again, then, because I can't promise not to turn and bite you in a fit of humiliated rage while you're in the throes."

O'Neill stood and slowly, heavily, walked around the table until he was towering over the younger man. Jackson, deliberately slumping, held O'Neill's gaze in an arrogant refusal to be cowed. The flickering lamps made black wells of O'Neill's eyes. O'Neill stood there a moment, then, silent and quick, he bent and seized a handful of Jackson's hair. Carelessly tied as it was, half of it came loose as he pulled, sending a shock down Jackson's neck and along his shoulders. O'Neill bent his head back, tugging Jackson's chin toward him.

"For what I have in mind, I think you're going to be needing your hands free."

O'Neill hovered, holding their lips scant inches apart. Their eyes locked. Jackson forced himself to sit still. O'Neill's grip was firm, but Jackson could have pulled free. He did not. He sat, watching O'Neill's mouth, watching him breathe, watching the pulse in his neck. The moment stretched out, and then abruptly O'Neill let go. Jackson had to catch himself on the table edge to keep from losing his seat. There was a dull ache where O'Neill had pulled his hair, but the ache ran meltingly down his neck and coiled around his spine. It was an unsettling feeling; intense and not quite pleasant. O'Neill had walked to the stern window. His back was to Jackson now, but his voice was matter-of-fact and clear.

"After your trip across on the _Dancer,_ I kept track of you. Paris, Lisbon. Prague, Constantinople, Damascus. Then I lost the trail for a while." O'Neill paused, and when he spoke again Jackson had the distinct feeling that he had changed what he was going to say. "When I found you again, it was through Teal'c's wife."

Jackson tried to stifle his huff of surprise.

"Oh, I know it sounds strange. But how I know that family is a very long story indeed. Your commander would be just as surprised as you are to learn it." He turned from the sea then, and met Jackson's eyes across the cabin. "You'd been sailing with Teal'c and Carter for a while by then, but I saw you, the three of you, together. It was about two years ago now, in a tavern in Algiers. I stood at the bar for a long time, and watched you at your table, drinking and laughing." He turned back to the window. "That night I learned that they aren't simply comrades of the moment to you, those two. So, that made me change my plans. But only a little."

Jackson was speechless. All his expectations of what would befall him since he'd sighted O'Neill's topgallants, early this morning, and realized the strategic brilliance of the ambush, were now exploded. The silence stretched out.

"No questions?" O'Neill said, and there was laughter in his voice. "I expected questions. Ten years ago it seemed like you never shut up."

"Well, that hasn't changed, but for once, I don't know what to say."

O'Neill gave a snort of laughter. He paced away from the window to the far end of the table. He pulled a cloth from a small tray that the boy had left there, set apart from the dinner dishes, and carefully unwrapped a second, thicker covering, revealing an ornate metal pot. There were matching cups. O'Neill poured, releasing the unmistakable aroma of sweet Turkish coffee.

Jackson was struck speechless all over again. O'Neill poured only one cup, though there were four on the tray. With a flourish, he set it in front of Jackson.

"This is my coffee service."

O'Neill sat down across from him and smiled. "Thorough. Kawalsky's nothing if not thorough."

Jackson shook his head, but he sipped the coffee. It was brewed and sweetened perfectly, in the traditional manner. Amazing. He lifted his eyes, the cup still at his lips.

"You're not having any?"

"Never touch the stuff," and O'Neill's smile was positively gleaming this time.

Jackson inhaled the warm, sweet aroma, drank some more of his favorite dessert, and tried to gather his thoughts. His memories of O'Neill from ten years ago continued to war with his situation. He cast about for something safe to say.

"Your second, Kawalsky -- is he Polish? You spoke to him in French."

"Yes, he is, or was. But I don't speak Polish. And you know practically everyone on the Continent can talk a little in French. It's kind of a ... job requirement."

Daniel nodded. O'Neill reached for their wine bottle, and poured himself the dregs, about a half glass. He seemed to enjoy watching Jackson enjoy the coffee.

When Jackson had reverently, respectfully, consumed two cups, sipping slowly in the poignant silence that they both allowed to fall, he put his cup back on his tray and, standing up, carefully spread the cloth over it.

The meal was done; that meant, in his adopted culture, that now it was officially time for ... business. He leaned on his knuckles and licked the last of the coffee from his lips. He let his gaze explore the enigma now seated across the table. He saw a handsome, weather-worn, battle-scarred man, whom both irony and temper now seemed to have deserted. O'Neill looked pensive. He pushed his empty wineglass to one side and put his hands in his lap. But by the set of his shoulders, he didn't seem to feel he had given up any advantage by now letting Jackson loom over him, in his turn.

O'Neill said quietly, "You asked me what I want. I want to take you to bed. Tonight. You know I won't hurt you. I've already shown my good faith by freeing your friends. That's it. That's what I want."

The brown eyes held his, not defiant, not aggressive. In fact, they were strangely veiled, given the nakedness of their owner's request.

Jackson had felt a thrill of enthusiastic agreement run along his traitorous skin and down his thighs, at those words. His body apparently believed O'Neill implicitly, but his mind had yet to be satisfied. He matched O'Neill's quiet tone. "Under these circumstances, my lying down for you would be rape. An act performed unwillingly. Under duress."

O'Neill didn't flinch at the ugly word. He merely lifted his chin, still holding Jackson's gaze. "Would it?"

Jackson stood there, and traced the line of O'Neill's jaw and throat with his eyes, remembered that one drop of water making its way through the curling hair on his chest, the way his breeches had stretched invitingly over his groin. His body must simply be registering a protest at how long Jackson's chaotic life, the necessity of trusting so few, had made him go without the kind of contact O'Neill was demanding. O'Neill had plied Jackson's touch-starved body with the pleasing view of his own, had bribed him with dinner, and then had exposed their previous acquaintance and his own incomprehensible motives. Jackson felt he must be losing his sense of what was appropriate, of what was possible, safe, or wise, after the strangeness of being taken captive. Because, he noted, cataloguing his reactions, he was actually entertaining the idea. He was actually hardening now, himself. He shook his head at himself, at his upside-down reactions to defeat. But, hell and damnation, perhaps it was a fitting end to this reckless, insane day. No -- to this reckless, insane decade! Perhaps it was a payment he could make, should make, to this much-too-attractive man, to the memory of that voyage, to the memory of his younger, carefree self. Jackson tasted that idea, rolled it around on his tongue. He said, "You let Teal'c go free. You spared Carter."

O'Neill sat there, his silence an agreement, his face a plea. Jackson went on, still testing: "You've followed me all these years, all the way from Paris."

O'Neill said nothing. Jackson went around the table, O'Neill remaining still as he approached, watching. In one swift move, Jackson bent, pulled the knife from O'Neill's boot and stepped back. O'Neill did not move to stop him. Did not so much as flinch.

Jackson said softly, "I could skewer you right now. Escape over the stern. I could swim for shore, or even kill enough of your men to recapture _Abydos_."

Jack just looked at him, waiting, his mouth a half smile. Jackson's stance was a relaxed _en guarde,_ knees bent, his free hand extended for balance. The well-tended knife glittered in the lamplight. He stared into O'Neill's eyes. O'Neill stared back.

Jackson lowered the sharp tip, stepped forward, and replaced the knife in O'Neill's boot. He straightened and folded his arms. His heart was racing again. He said, "You're the only one who ever came close to catching me, you know. The three of us? We were invincible."

O'Neill sketched a gesture with his head and one hand, a gracious bow.

Jackson closed the short distance between them with one stride, bent again, and seized O'Neill's head, wrapping a hand behind it, tangling his fingers in O'Neill's hair. He cupped his jaw with his other hand to hold him still, though O'Neill was offering no resistance, and kissed him.

O'Neill didn't seem taken by surprise. Quite the reverse. His mouth was soft and ready, catching Jackson's skillfully, already opening to mold their lips together, already welcoming and wet. He tasted of red wine and pepper. O'Neill didn't try to touch or embrace in any way. He sat there, taut, kissing intently, kissing until Jackson was dizzy with the leaning over and with the way his blood was rearranging itself. Eventually he pulled his mouth away, still holding O'Neill's head.

"One night," Jackson whispered, and O'Neill nodded. Jackson released him and stepped back.

O'Neill closed his eyes for a moment, as if gathering his strength, and then slowly rose from the chair. Jackson watched him as he turned to his bunk. Jackson was still a little dizzy, a little disoriented, but the thought occurred to him that if he indeed intended to do this, he was a bit overdressed. He started to unbutton his shirt, but quickly realized he'd done that already, before dinner, when he was testing O'Neill's motives. It seemed like a lifetime ago. He shook his head to clear it and shrugged out of his shirt, letting it fall to the carpet. He bent to pull off his boots, and when he looked up, O'Neill had pulled the mattress from the narrow bunk and was kneeling, spreading the blankets atop it.

Jackson finished undressing and stood there, waiting, he supposed, for O'Neill to remove his own clothing. He could have knelt beside him, reached out, kissed him again, stripped his shirt gently from him, as a lover would, but he waited. How had the events of the day led to this? This comfortable cabin, half-dark now, as the lamp behind O'Neill flickered and died, running out of oil. The warm, smoke-and-coffee scented air was gently stirred by the breeze coming aslant through the wide stern window.

O'Neill turned, and stood to face him, and slowly pulled off his own shirt and let it fall, kicked out of his boots, peeled down his trousers. Only then did he raise his eyes to Jackson's face, as if uncertain of what he would find. Perhaps he, too, was waiting for guidance. For a sign. The thought made Jackson smile. He stepped in, and slowly ran his palms down O'Neill's arms, finding the skin smooth and warm. Something caught in his throat as he pressed closer, one hand moving to splay against O'Neill's muscular back, the other closing around the warm shaft already rising to firmly nudge his thigh.

O'Neill moaned, then, a choked-off sound, and leaned into Jackson. Hard arms came around his ribs, holding tight. Jackson bent his head and pressed his tongue against the firm shoulder muscle, just where it met O'Neill's -- _Jack's_ \-- neck, and the other man's hands clutched involuntarily at his back, scratching a little, his hips pressing forward.

"Who is captive now?" Daniel whispered, squeezing, and moving his mouth to meet Jack's again. He felt Jack smile, and then they were kissing, like a reunion, messily, lips and teeth and tongues. Jack pressed in sharply with his hips, twice more, and then his hands closed around Daniel's arms and Jack pushed their bodies apart. They were both panting.

But he didn't let go; he simply drew Daniel down with him to the blankets. They lay on their sides, and Daniel tried to catch his breath. They lay there, stretched out, quiet, as if they were both trying to come to grips with the fact of their arrival on the floor, naked, together.

Jack had a hand at his jaw, stroking nervously with his thumb, watching Daniel's lips. Daniel tentatively ran his hands over the planes and curves of muscle and bone. He didn't want to hurry, and there was so much to touch, so much to notice. After a while, Jack closed his eyes, and pulled Daniel to him. He rolled to his back as he did so, tugging to bring Daniel over him. And Jack pressed up with his hips, a meltingly sweet collision that made Daniel moan, and then his moan was swallowed in Jack's mouth as Jack strained up to kiss him. Jack's hands were warm and rough against his ass, caressing, squeezing.

Daniel had a fleeting moment of wonder that Jack would arrange them like this -- because he'd made up his mind, in that instant when he'd held the knife and confirmed his decision not to use it, that he was indeed willing to bed O'Neill, and thus he'd assumed that also and inevitably meant he was willing to be fucked. So much for his assumptions....

They were straining together now, hips, hands, mouths, and Daniel knew he had to stop this, break this insistent rhythm that, for him, was already building into an urgent need for completion. Jack was holding on to him tightly, apparently as lost as he was. Daniel pulled away from the hot, beautiful mouth and started to kiss his way down Jack's torso, closing his eyes at the bliss of warm skin under his mouth. He lingered on a nipple, on the curve of rib softening to belly, and Jack moaned. Daniel no sooner closed his mouth over the tip of Jack's welling cock than strong fingers tugged at his hair again. It had long since come loose, the leather tie he'd regained lost somewhere in the blankets.

"Wait," Jack said hoarsely, and pushed at Daniel's shoulders. Daniel leaned up, letting Jack slip reluctantly from his lips. His cock tasted so good; the smells and sensations and feelings combining to half-entrance Daniel. He tried to focus, to meet his lover's eyes. He swallowed, savoring his taste of Jack. Jack let go of his hair and struggled a bit, getting an elbow bent, leaning back. He pulled a leg free from where it was trapped under Daniel's hip, and rolled to his stomach.

"Like this," he said, hiding his face in the blankets, bending his knee, and Daniel could barely breathe at the wave of new lust that washed over him. He pressed his cheek to the curve of ass, squeezed Jack's hip. _God._ He wanted -- he wanted so much, all of a sudden. The anticipation of what he was being invited to do, to feel, flooded him. On a sudden thought, he left off his caressing and pushed himself up and managed to make it the few steps to the table, to find the salad oil.

When he returned with it, falling to his knees on the blankets, Jack had not moved. When he felt Daniel's hand on his hip, he shifted, parting his legs further, offering himself. Daniel bit his lip.

"I didn't expect this," he said.

"But you'll do it," Jack returned, still hoarse. It wasn't a question.

"_Jack_," was all Daniel could say, running slicked fingers into warmth, into tightness -- slow, careful, entirely amazed.

It was easy, easier than it should have been, Daniel believed, and soon, they found a rhythm. Daniel continued to bite his lip, trying to anchor himself somewhere beyond the blinding rush of sensation. He moved gently, wanting to take his time, wanting -- surprising sentiment -- to give Jack pleasure, to give him something beautiful, something enjoyable, something _good._

They were both quiet, the needy moans of earlier trapped behind clenched teeth, eyes closed. Nothing to see, now; only warmth and movement and skin. Only flesh, and touch, and smell, and, all too soon, a glittering plunge into darkness, and then, sleep.

When Daniel woke, he was still wrapped around Jack, but they had moved together to lie on their sides, atop the disarranged bedding.

The lamps were all dead, and a grey, foggy dawn made the cabin seem somehow smaller. Daniel's side and back felt chilled, but everywhere he was pressed against Jack, he was deliciously warm. He sighed, long and relaxed, and squeezed Jack's fingers where they were laced through his.

He heard a gull cry. The ship was silent around them, except for the comforting creak of wood and rope, the rush of water moving against the hull, and the soft voices of the small dawn-shift crew.

Daniel, feeling an entirely unexpected and wholly irrational peace, allowed himself to lie there and watch the day brighten, watch color return to the Persian carpet, enjoy the reflected, muted gleam of the early sun on the polished legs of Jack's dining table. By the sun, they were on a north-northwest tack once again. They really were bound for Gibraltar. He listened to his stomach rumble, and then felt the infinitesimal return of muscle tension that told him his captor was awakening.

Then, a squeeze to his own fingers, and a slight backward press of hips, making Daniel close his eyes at the reminder, a spiking renewal of last night's bliss.

He pressed his lips to Jack's nape, and then raised his head enough to be able to whisper, "What have you done with my crew?"

Jack stirred a little, but didn't pull away. He stretched his leg, straightening it, flexed his back and cleared his throat. His tone was conversational, as if he felt no need to whisper.

"Oh, it's amazing how people can slip through one's fingers in these parts. And, you know, it's the ship that's the prize -- not some ragtag useless bunch of expatriates. Hanging's too good for them."

Daniel smiled. That was the last worry he could find in his still-tranquil mind.

"And their captain?"

"Him? There's a substantial price on his handsome red head. At Gibraltar I'm supposed to put him on a ship bound for Boston."

Daniel smiled against skin. "But what is _going_ to happen to him?"

Jack chuckled. "I've always been given to understand that there's wonderful fishing on Lake Constance, this time of year. Never had a chance to explore Switzerland. So far."

"Luckily for you, my German is excellent," Daniel said, and raised himself on an elbow, rolling them over to press Jack into the blankets once again.

 

~~~~

 

_We both are lost  
and alone in the world  
Walk with me  
in the gentle rain  
Don't be afraid; I've a hand  
for your hand  
and I will be your love  
for a while_

_Gentle Rain_ by Bonfa/Dubey  
From "Love Scenes," Diana Krall Trio


End file.
